Obinai practically tears himself away from the gondola station, his steps quickening as he distances himself from what he can only assume was a very bad decision.
"I seriously need to stop doing that," he mutters, rubbing his face as he walks. "Like, actually."
They were probably important. Definitely important. Maybe even people he'll have to deal with again.
And that Lord Heir guy...?
"Lord Heir… That's actually kinda badass. Would be even cooler if—"
He shakes the thought away, adjusting his hood just in case. The fabric still feels heavy over his head, obscuring his face, but he doesn't trust it completely. Not after how many eyes were already on him.
Exiting the station, the world shifts. The hum of the terminal fades, giving way to a town that feels almost... quaint compared to everything else he's seen so far.
These houses look familiar.
And not in a way he likes.
His lips press into a thin line as his eyes flick over the buildings. The homes near the station remind him too much of Eldoria. Thatched roofs, simple wooden beams, flower boxes perched on windowsills. The kind of place that looks warm on the outside, but feels suffocating when you're stuck in it for too long.
He grimaces, pushing the thought away.
Focus.
The cobblestone path beneath him is well-worn, guiding him forward. The road is subtle, smooth, with small, brass-lined street lamps standing at even intervals, their filaments buzzing faintly.
"So, this is the route to Elona..." He scans the area...
The gondola was for students, so this path must lead to the academy. He just has to keep moving.
And as he does, the town shifts again.
The small, rustic homes give way to something grander.
Stone facades replace wooden beams. Balconies emerge, wrought iron railings curling into intricate filigree. The glass panes on the windows glint.
Beyond elaborate iron gates, manicured gardens stretch out, filled with plants Obinai doesn't recognize—some with twisting, silver-lined leaves, others blooming with bioluminescent petals that faintly shimmer, shifting colors as he walks by.
Then—the road changes.
The cobblestone beneath his feet seamlessly transitions into white stone.
It happens so subtly, so flawlessly, that if he hadn't been paying attention, he wouldn't have noticed.
And then—he sees it.
His feet still.
Elona Academy rises before him.
"Holy shit."
Encased by towering white stone walls, the entire structure feels less like a school and more like a fortress.
Above, spire-like towers stretch skyward, their reflective surfaces catching the light and scattering it in prismatic beams across the sky. Between them, hanging bridges connect different sections, their pathways lined with hovering lanterns that glow softly, casting warm, golden hues against the stone and metal.
At the forefront, the grand entrance gate stands massive and imposing, its wrought iron frame layered with reinforced plates, each one engraved with shifting runes that seem to shift and realign whenever someone steps closer. The very structure of the gate reacts, almost as if aware of those who approach.
Along its hinges, small clockwork mechanisms click and adjust, fine-tuning in response to unseen commands.
Beyond the gate, the academy opens up into a vast courtyard, the ground paved with white stone now streaked with veins of silver and gold. The patterns aren't just decorative—they form intricate sigils, subtly channeling energy through the very foundation of the campus.
Lush hanging gardens weave through the walkways, their vines wrapping around tall brass arches and thin, floating pylons that gently shift positions as needed. Small streams of water flow along narrow channels, their paths guided by unseen forces, eventually cascading into tiered basins lined with statues. Each sculpture stands frozen in a stance, their hands lifted toward the sky.
The paths leading further into the academy branch out like veins, each leading toward a different part of the institution.
To the left, a large domed building rises, its metallic ribs gleaming under the sun. Around it, mechanized telescopes and floating observatories slowly rotate, their lenses adjusting on their own, likely the academy's research division.
To the right, a towering library stands. Its stained-glass windows shimmer with shifting colors, and its massive doors, carved with delicate interlocking gears, seem to coil and twist as if alive. The entire structure hums...
Deeper inside, an elevated transport system of rail-guided lifts and floating walkways crisscrosses the air, carrying students and faculty between the various buildings. Tubes of light glow faintly, stretching along the walkways.
Everywhere he looks, Obinai sees movement—professors in long black coats lined with gold, students clad in their dark uniforms, and even mechanical constructs, their metallic limbs moving smoothly as they perform maintenance across the grounds.
The central tower of the academy...
A monolith of glass-bound steel and inscribed ivory, stretching higher than any other building in sight. Suspended above it, a colossal floating ring hovers, its surface carved with symbols that glow like distant constellations while it gently rotates.
Obinai barely registers the movement of other students.
Young adults and teens in their uniforms drift through the entrance. Some are deep in conversation, others walking in practiced silence.
"This is more beautiful than I ever imagined..."
The tears blur his vision, but he can still see it—Elona Academy, standing before him like something out of a dream.
And then—
The tears come harder...
"Mya would have loved this."
The words fall from his lips, barely a whisper...
He clenches his jaw, but it does nothing to stop the trembling in his hands. His sister—she would have been so amazed, so excited. He can already hear her voice, filled with wonder, with curiosity, with questions that never ended.
"I bet it's even bigger inside, Obi! I bet they have entire libraries filled with books older than time itself! I bet the food's amazing! What do you think the dorms look like?"
Obinai squeezes his eyes shut, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.
"She should have been the one to see this. Not me."
He forces himself to breathe. He wipes his face, sniffing sharply. The ache doesn't go away...it never will.
He straightens, adjusting his hood, and exhales slowly.
"Alright..."
He walks through...
The courtyard unfolds before him, more breathtaking up close. Lush gardens spill into every open space, their flora unlike anything he's ever seen. Some plants shimmer with an inner luminescence, petals shifting hues in slow, mesmerizing pulses. Others grow in impossible patterns—spiraling upwards, floating slightly above the ground, held aloft by invisible forces.
At the center of the courtyard stands a towering fountain, its structure a grand depiction of a phoenix with wings outstretched, frozen mid-flight. Water cascades down its feathers like liquid crystal, pooling into an intricate basin.
The scent of aged parchment, fresh ink drifts through the air, mingling with the distant sound of chimes, the murmurs of students, and the occasional crackle of essence being tested in controlled bursts.
Figures move all around him, some in groups, others standing alone. He keeps his hood low, blending into the flow of students heading toward what appears to be the registration line.
His gaze flicks to the queue of incoming students.
A tall, blonde-haired elf stands near the front, his robes tailored and embroidered with delicate, swirling patterns that shift under the light. Next to him, a tiefling with deep violet skin and polished, curling horns speaks animatedly, gesturing with gloved hands. Further back, a dwarven boy, broad-shouldered and clad in reinforced leather, adjusts the weight of his massive pack.
Even a few reptilian figures—scales dark, eyes sharp, tails flicking occasionally—stand in line, their expressions unreadable.
Obinai lets out a slow breath, adjusting his posture as he steps into the line.
"Just stay quiet. Stay unnoticed. Get through this."
As he waits, the conversations around him bleed into focus.
To his right, an elven group speaks in clipped, refined tones.
The first boy, still adjusting his silk-lined sleeve, lets out an exaggerated sigh.
"And these uniforms… truly, must we be subjected to such aesthetic offense?" He tugs at the black fabric of his coat with distaste, his expression soured as if he'd been forced to wear rags.
"Ugh, don't remind me," the second elf groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I understand that they're enhanced, fine—woven with protective enchantments, self-regulating temperature, reinforced against wear and tear, all very impressive—but the design?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful."
The girl with emerald-threaded braids sweeps a hand over her waistcoat, smoothing out an invisible crease, her mouth pursed in irritation.
"The color alone is an insult," she remarks sharply. "So dark, so... severe. It clashes horribly with my complexion. Do they expect us to parade around in mourning attire? It lacks any semblance of refinement."
The first boy nods in agreement, flicking a strand of golden hair over his shoulder.
"I fail to understand how we, of all citizens, were not given alternative options. If I am to be forced into such drabness, at the very least, allow for some customization. A crest, an suggestion of different embroidery, something."
"Yes, but no," the second elf huffs. "Even if I could request a personal embellishment, I doubt I could make this atrocity work. Look at it. The high collar is too stiff, the cut is far too rigid, and the coat length? Please." He gestures dramatically. "It was clearly designed with commoners in mind—functional, but completely lacking in artistry."
The girl sniffs disdainfully, adjusting the silver-fastened cuffs at her wrists.
"It's simply another example of how this academy is slipping into absurdity," she declares. "I suppose it makes sense now why they see fit to place us in this… general queue, as if we were no different from the grounded."
The golden-haired boy lets out a dry chuckle.
"Perhaps the headmaster truly has lost his mind. What was it he said? 'Inclusivity breeds progress'? Hah." He shakes his head. "All I see are glorified laborers and vagrants pretending at higher learning."
Obinai clicks his tongue, forcing himself to look away. I really, really need to get out of this line before I end up doing something stupid.
"And I'm the idiot who actually responded to these people earlier. Never again..."
A dwarf and a gnome stand engaged in a heated debate to his left, their voices quick and sharp, hands moving wildly as they argue.
The dwarf, stocky with barely a trace of a beard, wears a thick leather apron over a fitted tunic, burn marks and soot stains covering the fabric. A pair of heavy goggles sit atop his forehead, the lenses thick with smudged glass. His broad arms are crossed, his expression caught between frustration and amusement.
"Lad, ye're thinkin' too much an' not feelin' the metal! Ye need raw material density fer high-mana infusion! Anything less, an' ye get weak, fragile constructs that'll shatter under the lightest bit of pressure!"
The gnome, noticeably smaller, but with twice the energy, scoffs, pushing his round spectacles further up his nose. His coat is lined with pockets—far too many—each stuffed with humming devices, rolled-up blueprints, and scribbled notes. He speaks with a high, rapid cadence, each word tumbling over the next like he's racing himself.
"Ah, but that is where your crude, hammer-swinging methodology fails to grasp the finer intricacies of arcane metallurgy!" He waves his hands wildly, nearly smacking the dwarf in the chest. "Mana infusion isn't just about density—it's about the structural latticework of the material's aetheric composition! What's the point of brute force if your material is rigid and unresponsive to fine-tuned mana flow?"
The dwarf lets out a snort, shaking his head.
"Latticework? Bah! Precision's well an' good—until yer delicate, intricate little framework snaps like a twig the first time someone actually uses the damn thing." He taps a thick finger against the gnome's chest. "I'll take a sturdy hammer an' proper reinforcement over one of yer theoretical, fall-apart-at-the-seams, magic-toys any day."
The gnome bristles, his nose scrunching in frustration.
"You would say that," he mutters, adjusting his spectacles.
"Aye," the dwarf says, grinning. "An' I stand by it."
The gnome mutters something under his breath, clearly not giving up the argument anytime soon.
To Obinai's right, the elves—still wrapped in their own world—finally take notice of the exchange. One of them, the golden-haired boy from earlier, lets out a loud exaggerated sigh.
"Really now?" he drawls, turning his head toward the dwarf. His piercing green eyes settle on him with barely veiled disdain. "Must you engage in debate with a grounded? You could at least maintain some level of decorum—if not for yourself, then for the image you represent." He flicks his fingers idly.
The gnome stiffens, his gaze dropping slightly, hands curling at his sides.
"And honestly," another elf chimes in, adjusting the silver embroidery on their cuffs, "must you speak so...boorishly? It's positively grating. Not to mention that look—"
His nose wrinkles.
"Dirt, soot, and—ugh—leather? You do realize you represent the exalted, yes?"
The dwarf lets out a slow chuckle, shaking his head.
"Oh, aye. An' y'know what? I've been wonderin' somethin' fer a while now."
The elves glance at each other, clearly unimpressed.
"If I represent the exalted, then why're the gnomes still considered grounded when they came up wit half o' what you lot use?"
There's a pause.
A brief, stunned silence.
The golden-haired elf blinks, his perfect mask of arrogance flickering just slightly.
"Excuse me?"
The dwarf grins wider, folding his arms.
"Y'heard me. The way I see it, the gnomes built a damn sight more'n the lot o' ya. The whole damn city, practically. The infrastructure. The foundations of half the arcane tech yer all so smug about. An' yet—" he gestures toward the gnome, who still won't quite meet anyone's gaze "—they're still lumped in wit' the rest o' the 'lessers.' How's that work, exactly?"
A muscle in the elf's jaw tightens, his composure slipping.
"It is not merely about contribution—it is about lineage, about the bloodline of the—"
The dwarf laughs, cutting him off.
"Aye, aye. Bloodlines, status, all that noble-born nonsense." He waves a hand. "Y'know what I think? I think y'all're just boring."
"Pardon?" the girl with the emerald-lined jewelry breathes.
The dwarf grins, unbothered.
"Yep. Boring. The dark elves? Bit more flare to 'em. The tieflings? Always got surprises. Even the beastfolk've got more color since they're so many of 'em. But you lot? Same high collars, same perfect braids, same self-important prattle. An' none of ye can take a joke to save yer lives."
The elves stand in stunned silence.
Even the gnome lets out a small, poorly-contained snicker.
Obinai, watching all of this unfold, has to physically turn away to hide the smirk tugging at his lips.
"I like this guy."
The elves murmur amongst themselves, clearly displeased but unwilling to continue their argument. One of them gives the dwarf a final, pointed glare before turning away, muttering something about "unrefined company."
Obinai keeps his head down, his shoulders relaxed, but beneath the shadow of his hood, his lips twitch upward.
The air hums with overlapping voice—quick exchanges, murmured complaints, snide remarks whispered under breath. The longer Obinai stands in line, the more fragments of conversation drift into his ears.
"—another incident in the lower district. They say it was a Forsaken."
Obinai's brow furrows slightly beneath his hood. Again?
"No chance. They don't make it up here," another voice scoffs. "They're barely functional as it is."
"I heard differently," a third voice interjects, lower, more cautious. "A whole group of them was caught trying to sneak into the eastern ward last night."
"Idiots." A soft, derisive chuckle.
"They should know their place."
The words hang in the air...
Forsaken. That word keeps coming up.
He can't help but run through what little he knows.
Humans and… the uhh… imps. They're the ones people call the Forsaken, right?
Even the thought of the word makes his skin prickle. He's never heard it used kindly.
The more he listens, the worse the conversations around him start to sound. The nobles barely hide their disdain. The scholars speak about them like curiosities rather than people. Some just… pretend they don't exist at all.
Obinai inhales slowly, forcing himself to focus.
"Should I actually be here?"
He shifts his weight, almost stepping out of line before he stops himself.
No. Later. Deal with it later.
The line inches forward, the teens ahead shifting into motion. Someone brushes past him—a tall reptilian beastkin, his scales dark and matte, the curved horns at the back of his head adorned with silver rings. He moves silently, his gaze flicking to Obinai briefly before looking away, disinterested.
Suddenly—he's next.
The orc at the registration desk barely glances up at first. Dressed in a reinforced high-collared coat with thick, metal-lined sleeves, he continues to scribble in a text.
When he finally looks up, his deep-set amber eyes lock onto Obinai.
"Name?"
Obinai swallows. His throat is suddenly very dry.
"Obinai N—" He stops himself. Shit. Can't use my last name.
He clears his throat. "Just Obinai. Yeah."
The orc's expression doesn't change.
Quill scratches against parchment, deliberate, slow. Obinai swears the process takes longer than it should. Sweat pricks at the back of his neck as the orc flips through more pages, scanning each one with ease.
Obinai shifts on his feet.
Finally, the orc looks back up. His brow furrows.
"You're not on the list."
Obinai's stomach plummets.
"What—?"
"Not listed," the orc repeats flatly, tapping a thick finger against the parchment.
Obinai's blood runs cold. His heartbeat slams against his ribs. He can already see it—being turned away, being dragged out, being—
No. No, think, damn it—
His hand flies to his pocket.
"I—I have this," he blurts, nearly thrusting the envelope forward. "I was told to give this to the headmaster."
The orc eyes the envelope. Slowly, he reaches for it.
The wax seal catches the light, gleaming faintly—a phoenix, rising from flames, encircled by silver leaves. The moment the emblem comes into full view, something shifts in the orc's expression.
A beat of silence.
The orc's posture relaxes slightly. His grip on the envelope is firm, but no longer cold.
"Wait here."
And then—he stands.
Obinai blinks.
And blinks again.
Easily seven and a half feet, broad enough to block out the damn sun, muscles coiled beneath his uniform. Every step he takes sends a ripple through the crowd, people instinctively moving out of his way.
The orc disappears beyond a curtained archway, leaving the line to fall into a tense hush.
Seconds stretch into agonizing minutes.
What if this doesn't work? What if they turn me away? What if—
But then—
Heavy footsteps return.
The orc steps back into view. He walks straight up to the desk, places the envelope down, then meets Obinai's gaze.
"You can go in."
The orc hands back the envelope, this time with a little more care.
"But," the orc continues, his voice lower, weighted, "the headmaster wants to speak with you first."
Obinai forces a nod. "Uh… right. Thanks."
The orc grunts, then gestures toward the main path.
"Follow this path until through the central courtyard." he explains, voice steady, practiced. "The headmaster's office is in the tower behind it. Go up the main staircase to the top floor. Someone will guide you from there."
"...Got it."
Obinai steps forward, leaving the checkpoint behind as he follows the white stone path stretching into the academy's heart.
The sheer vastness of the campus is even more daunting now that he's inside...seeing something that was obscured from his view by the greenery.
A grand fountain dominates the space, its water cascading from a sculpted phoenix with outstretched wings, perched atop a twisting column. The base is lined with stone benches, where students are gathered—some reading, others engaged in quiet discussions.
The pathways weave outward like veins, connecting various sections of the academy.
Obinai keeps his hood low, moving through the crowd as unnoticed as possible.
To his left, a pair of centaurs stands near a spiraling obelisk. One centaur—a tall figure with a sleek, jet-black coat—gestures toward the inscriptions as he speaks, his voice smooth and measured.
"The phoenix," he explains, his tone carrying the weight of a lecturer, "is not merely a symbol of rebirth, as many assume. It is a guardian of knowledge, a vessel of forgotten truths. Its flames do not simply burn—they erase, purify, and reshape the very nature of reality."
His companion—a shorter centaur with a dappled gray coat and a metallic harness draped across his shoulders—nods, but his expression remains skeptical.
"Sounds poetic," he muses, idly adjusting the silver-trimmed bracers strapped to his forearms. "But I wonder—how much truth is left after the flames take what they will?"
Obinai doesn't linger to hear the response...
Ahead, a group of students lounges beneath an archway draped in ivy, their posture relaxed. A tall elf flips lazily through the pages of a heavy tome, his expression unimpressed as the student beside him—a tiefling—speaks animatedly, hands moving in sharp, practiced gestures.
"You underestimate the importance of raw power," the tiefling insists. "Subtlety has its place, but you won't win a duel with theory alone."
The elf barely lifts his gaze. "And you overestimate brute force. Strength without refinement is nothing more than desperation."
Nearby, a gnome kneels beside a strange, floating device. A half-disassembled automaton, its chest cavity exposed to reveal an array of interwoven cogs and tubing, hovers weightlessly in front of him.
"No, no, no, it's about balance!" the gnome mutters, adjusting the small magnification lenses over his eyes. His coat rustles as he pulls out a tiny screwdriver and a flask of shimmering blue liquid. "Too much pressure, and the stabilizers overload. Too little, and the entire propulsion system collapses!"
Obinai hides his smirk and presses forward, weaving through the steadily thinning crowd as he nears the academy's central tower.
The structure rises high above the courtyard, its light exterior accented with streaks of polished brass and silver. The upper levels extend outward in a series of interlocking platforms, connected by floating bridges that shift at regular intervals.
The entrance is framed by two massive statues—figures draped in long cloaks, one holding an open book, the other gripping a staff.
Obinai slows his steps.
The air feels… different here. He can't place it, but there's a weight to the atmosphere, something pressing against the edges of his senses.
The inside is just as overwhelming—a vast chamber with polished marble floors, massive chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow. The walls are lined with ancient tapestries, each depicting battles, celestial formations, and legendary mages lost to time.
At the center of the room, behind an ornate desk carved from deep crimson wood, stands a tiefling woman.
Her blue skin glows faintly under the chandeliers. Sharp cheekbones, piercing gold eyes that flick up from a massive ledger, horns adorned with delicate gold cuffs. She wears a tailored academy uniform, layered beneath a fitted navy-blue coat with intricate silver embroidery.
The moment her gaze meets his, Obinai feels it.
Not suspicion. Not hostility.
But calculation.
She closes the ledger, tapping one sharp nail against the surface. "Are you the boy Reynald mentioned?" Her voice is cool, clipped—but not unkind.
Obinai nods quickly, swallowing down whatever nerves threaten to rise. "Yeah. That's me." He reaches into his cloak, pulling out the envelope.
She takes it, her long fingers turning it over carefully before pressing one thumb against the wax seal. The emblem flashes briefly—a ripple of magic pulsing outward—before she exhales, seemingly satisfied.
The sharp, deliberate click of the tiefling woman's heels against the polished floor echoes through the corridor, each step measured, precise. Obinai follows a few paces behind, his own footsteps near-silent in comparison, though his tension feels just as loud.
They might actually say no.
The thought lodges itself in his mind, unwelcome but persistent. His fingers twitch at his sides, resisting the urge to fidget with his cloak.
If they don't like that I'm human… if they find some reason to turn me away…
He clenches his jaw, trying to force the spiraling anxiety down.
What do I even do then?
Running wasn't an option. He had nowhere to go.
Returning to Vale? Not happening.
But before the thought can spiral further, his pacing stutters—his shoulder bumps into the tiefling woman's back.
She's stopped abruptly, standing before a set of doors so massive that, for a second, Obinai just stares.
They are obsidian-black wood, their surfaces carved with interwoven filigree of gold and silver, that faintly pulse. When he unconsciously lifts a hand and brushes his fingers against the surface, a static hum crawls across his skin, the magic reacting to his touch.
This is it.
The tiefling woman turns to him, arms crossing over the elaborate detailing of her uniform—now that he's closer, he notices the intricate stitching along the cuffs and shoulders. She was clearly someone of importance.
"This is it," she states simply, though there's a weight to her words.
But then, the tiefling does something unexpected.
Her expression softens—just slightly. The sharp, assessing glint in her gaze dulls, and a flicker of something like amusement crosses her features. "Good luck," she says, though her tone isn't entirely formal anymore.
Then—with a casual flick of her wrist, she adds, "Just be yourself. The headmaster is wise… somewhat… kinda."
Obinai pauses mid-breath, blinking. His nerves stall for a brief second, overridden by confusion.
Somewhat? Kinda?
His brow furrows, and despite himself, he blurts, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She smirks but offers no answer.
Instead, she steps forward, placing one clawed hand against the massive doors. With a single push, they groan open, revealing the chamber beyond.
A wave of cool air sweeps past him, carrying the faint scent of incense...
Obinai swallows hard, gripping his cloak. His pulse thrums in his ears.
He barely notices the tiefling woman stepping aside, her role fulfilled.
He has no more time to wonder. No more time to question.
With a final, steadying breath—he steps inside...